


Digging Up Bones

by ponderinfrustration



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Coming of Age, Exploration, Grief, M/M, Palaeontologist AU, Romance, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-09 13:32:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15268551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: When Raoul is 18, Philippe decides to send him to America for a year before he devotes himself to the Navy, to "have an experience." On the voyage, he befriends a handsome young palaeontologist, and despite his scepticism about the bones of ancient creatures, friendship leads to more than he ever bargained for.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ConvenientAlias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/gifts).



> This is a short little thing (about 3 chapters total) that resulted from convenientalias asking me on Tumblr for 5 headcanons where either Raoul or Erik had gone on a palaeontological expedition pre-canon.

It was Philippe’s idea, and there is an odd satisfaction in that. He is eighteen, still a long way from his majority, and whenever someone asks him, now or in the future, why he made an American trip before entering the Navy proper, he can always shrug and say, “It was before my majority, and it was my brother’s idea.” And they will all think him to still be or have been the boy he feels himself to be inside.

(A boy, yet so much a man, though he does not realise it yet.)

His sisters pull him into their arms, hug after hug after hug, each make him promise to come back in one piece and he knows Marietta has voiced her distaste for the whole thing to Philippe on several occasions, but when Philippe makes up his mind on something there is never any going back. And Raoul will never admit, not to Philippe, not to his sisters, that he is terrified at the prospect of the whole venture, of being cast across the water to make his own way for a year. How could he be happy at that when he could already be in the Navy? To be so far away from everything he has ever known—

His throat closes up, nausea boiling in his stomach that he swallows down as he offers his hand to Philippe. But Philippe pulls him into an embrace, and promises him that he will do well, that he will enjoy himself. And, in a soft undertone to be certain their sisters cannot hear, he adds, “I have heard wonderful things about American girls.” Then he releases Raoul, and claps him on the back, and nods.

And is Raoul imagining it, or are there tears shining in Philippe’s eyes?

No. Surely Raoul is imagining it.

And so it is that Vicomte Raoul de Chagny, all of eighteen years and two months, soon to be of the Navy, bids farewell to his family and the land of his birth, the only land he has ever known, and boards the ship for Boston.

He stands on the deck with all those other hopefuls of his class and lower, and waves until his arm aches so much that it might drop off, and he cannot pick out the harbour from the rest of the shoreline. Then he retreats to his cabin, lies face down on his bed, and gives into tears.

* * *

 

He has composed himself (a fact for which he will be forever grateful), when there is a knock on the door. He rolls off the bed, smooths the wrinkles from his clothes and runs a hand through his hair to restore some order to it. A second knock comes just as he reaches the door, and he mutters to himself about the impatience of some people, before plastering on a mildly polite smile, and answering it.

All moodiness falls off him at once, and his breath catches at the sight of the man standing the far side. A shade taller than him, the same age, or just a little more, and something stirs deep inside of him, eyes roving over curling dark hair, a neatly trimmed moustache and slim figure, and sparkling eyes that meet his.

He swallows, and takes the offered hand, heart stirring at the callused fingers.

“Cuvier.” The voice that goes with that hand, with that face, is lilting and Raoul struggles to take in a breath. “Martin Cuvier. I have the cabin next door.”

 And beneath him, Raoul feels the floor shift, independent of the sea.

* * *

 

He has never been in love before. He has been infatuated, like with that girl he knew once in Perros-Guirec, Christine Daaé. He has had dalliances, has even been _involved_ , briefly, with a boy that he studied with. But love? Never.

He does not even realise that he is in love now, three nights later, sitting out on deck beside Martin, looking up at the stars. In truth, he fell the moment he met those eyes, and he should have realised it when they parted after that brief first meeting, and he tried to sketch that face from memory.

Sudden realisations are not things any de Chagny has ever dealt in, to his knowledge.

(Philippe would tell him about many sudden realisations, if he had ever thought to ask, and if there was enough wine involved.)

But Martin is…simply fascinating. There is no other word to describe him, though enthusiastic, excited, and eccentric would all fit. Magical. Beautiful. Not handsome, though he is certainly handsome, but beautiful. He is, perhaps, the most beautiful man that Raoul has ever met.

He is _definitely_ the most beautiful man that Raoul has ever met.

And he is completely, utterly, fascinating.

Only a handful of years older. And full of the wildest, strangest ideas that have surely ever been spoken.

Who searches for bones? Who crosses the ocean just to look for _old bones?_ Of giant creatures who apparently lived millions of years ago? How could it ever be possible?

It’s all a ruse. It must be. Martin must be a gold prospector, like the ones Raoul’s read about in the papers, flocking to different places in the middle of nowhere in pursuit of fortune. Or maybe it’s silver that he’s more interested in. He’s read about giant silver mines in the American desert. Yes, it must be either silver or gold that he’s really after, and he is simply too cautious to admit that.

Who gives a damn about old bones?

* * *

 

Yet, in spite of his scoffing, in spite of how ludicrously ridiculous the whole thing is, Raoul agrees to join him on his expedition West, reasoning that the only other opportunities he has are contacts of Philippe’s, and they are strangers to him. Martin he knows, and acquaintance turned to friendship on the third night, when they smoked and laughed and drank under the stars, and when Martin had a fit of coughing brought on by their exuberance, he only laughed louder, and grasped Raoul’s hand tight enough to make his heart stall.

And so it is agreed. They will stop in Boston, lay over a week or two to recover from the journey. Hire a photographer “to photograph the bones” (and Raoul supposes that if they do stumble upon gold or silver, it would be nice to have a proper record of it), and Raoul will write his brother, and gather more pencils and paper, and maybe they will find anyone willing to join their expedition. Then onto Chicago, to gather more supplies and another couple of men, and off. Martin is full of thoughts about bonefields in Montana and Wyoming, and these he lays out one night, half-talking to himself, as Raoul blows smoke circles to the ceiling.

* * *

 

It is their second night in Boston, and Martin is poring over maps as Raoul sketches him. It is an _effort,_ pure and simple, to capture those curls just right. The last time Raoul struggled so much with curls was back in Perros with Christine, and that was six years ago! One would think he would have gotten better at the whole thing in six years, but apparently curls are his artistic downfall and it’s _infuriating._ He gets a fresh sheet of paper and starts again, and sips wine to get the acrid taste of cigars out of his mind.

He has the face sketched in, those eyes, the lashes that are just slightly longer than normal, the tiny lines at the edge of the mouth that whisper of dreams, and he tilts his head to reconsider the vision in front of him, how best to capture the curls.

And Martin is smiling softly at him.

And maybe it is the wine. Maybe it is the frustration. Maybe it is so long confined to a small space, between the boat and here. Maybe it is because this is the first time his heart has ever fluttered this way at meeting someone’s gaze.

But the collar of Martin’s shirt is soft between his fingers.

And his mouth is oddly dry at the sight of those lips, slightly parted.

Then all he can taste is the heady must of red wine, and the faint lingering acridity of cigars, and a slight hint of iron that must be from his habit of biting his tongue as he sketches, and he swallows as they break apart, Martin’s eyes shining sky-blue, a tear trickling down his cheek.

His voice is thick with feeling. “I didn’t think that you—”

And their lips are meeting again, and arms are coming around him, lowering him, damp tears smeared on his cheek though whether they are his or Martin’s he cannot tell, will never know, and his heart is throbbing, aching, so full, so desperate as they gasp and their lips come together again, and Raoul whimpers into his mouth, his hands easing his shirt from his trousers.

And then they are pressed, skin on skin, and his breath stutters and the aching inside is such that he might die, here and now, in the arms of the most beautiful man he has ever met, and it would not matter a damn, would be the highlight of his life.

Then Martin’s lips are brushing his throat, and any thoughts crash to a stop.


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished writing this fic yesterday, and it's ended up at 6 chapters and over 10k words so. basically there's quite a bit more of this coming.

The letter he writes Philippe is full of euphemisms. _I have become acquainted with a gentleman named Martin Cuvier,_ might read as a perfectly honest thing to write, if _acquainted_ meant _lovers_. _We and several others are joining a geological survey heading West_ is a nice way of dressing-up, _Martin is a bone hunter and I think it’s ridiculous but my heart can’t bear being away from him._ And _we stay up late discussing biology and botany_ is a polite way to put _he raves about creatures that lived long before mankind and I try not to think about religion as I wonder when I can kiss him again._

And, at the end, he thanks his brother for coming up with the idea that brought him here. And those simple words of thanks cannot begin to encapsulate all it is that he truly means by them.

* * *

 

He is still sceptical about the dinosaurs, about the possibility of them. Giant creatures who roamed the earth millions of years before man? It’s nonsense. Did God send them down? He might almost give the idea some credence, if it were not for all that he’s learned, all that he’s been taught, by his brother, by society, by the church. God made mankind in His image. He built this world and locked mankind out of paradise because of an act of betrayal, and all the animals hold this secret within them but they cannot be understood because of that ancient betrayal. The framework is simple.

If dinosaurs existed, how could they fit into that? Where are they now? Why are they no longer living? What could have happened to destroy them? How could God have let one of His creatures be utterly destroyed? Be turned into nothing more than bones hidden in the ground? Did they commit a terrible act of betrayal too?

It’s more than Raoul can get his head around, more than he can begin to fathom. He keeps these things to himself, dares not breathe them to Martin for fear that he might be laughed at (though he doubts if Martin would laugh at him, but the ideas are enough to make his heart uncomfortable and he cannot begin to explain them so they are best kept to himself).

It is late, and he is only half-awake, Martin’s face tucked into his neck, when he decides that perhaps the dinosaurs were lost in the flood, were too big for Noah to save on his ark. And he drops off to sleep content in that.

It is weeks later, and they have recently ridden out from Cheyenne, when he revises his answer.

God planted the bones to lead beautiful men like Martin on glorious adventures.

And that answer sets his heart at ease.

* * *

 

But first there is them, this. Raoul has never woken up before to being kissed on his lips, or his forehead, or his cheeks, or, ah, _elsewhere_. He never imagined it as ever coming to be part of his existence, but now it is here. Now he gets kissed all the time, he gets to kiss someone whenever he wants. Just reach over, and brush his lips, or take his hand and press the lightest of kisses to his knuckles. It is a whole world of experience, of touch and taste and intimacy, that he never dreamt was possible.

He is coming to realise that there are many things he never dreamt possible.

And after three weeks of intense practice, at any hour of the day or night, and with Martin in any position (sprawled dozing half-nude or fully nude on the bed, arm slung over his head, or curled up on his side, or lying back against the pillows smoking, clothes in disarray after a particularly arduous session, or sipping tea while studying his maps, or smiling softly over the top of his newspaper, or standing at the window after one of his coughing fits, hips rocked forward, arm over his head to brace himself, or doing anything, really, at all) it is much less of a challenge to sketch curls.

He glances up, now, from his latest effort, and feels a little thrill in his heart at the sight of his lover, sprawled asleep, fingers curled loosely at his side. Then he sets the portrait down, and sighs, and crawls into bed beside him.

* * *

 

They engage a photographer to join them on their travels, a Southerner named McKey. And his Georgian accent presents more of a challenge for Raoul to understand than sketching curls ever did. He prides himself on his English. He had a tutor in his youth, and the few weeks he has been in America have done wonders for him. But McKey’s drawl is an exhaustion to make sense of if he is any way tired or distracted at all.

And with Martin beside him, he spends a greater amount of his time distracted than not.

Martin’s own ability with English is better than his own, is passed off with a simple, “There were always Englishmen around the bonefields when I was growing up.” And the fact of it makes their preparations a great deal easier than they might have been, though they speak exclusively French with each other, unless it is late at night, and even then the English is sparing, and is intended less to communicate than it is to gain _other results._

It is only after they meet McKey that they push on, from Boston to Chicago. McKey makes his own arrangements, travels in the same cabin on the train as his camera and chemicals, but Raoul and Martin share a cabin, share a bunk. It is narrow, truly designed to only fit one man, but they make it work, and the few nights they have are more than memorable.

Raoul is almost sad to leave the train.

* * *

 

Chicago puts an end to the quiet intimacy they have known so far. Martin has contacts, acquaintances from the bonefields in France and Germany, and links through those acquaintances. They guide him where to source supplies, where to find four more good men to join them (and Raoul will never forget the way his eyes lit up when he met one of them, Taylor, and shook his hand as if he might jar it loose, and exclaimed, “Is it true you worked with Cope?” An hours-long interrogation ensued, in which Raoul sketched and half-listened, and thought about how, for a man who is always beautiful, Martin could look even more beautiful when engaged in spirited conversation about his greatest passion. He wondered, distantly, if he ought to be jealous, and settled for trying to capture the precise sparkle in his eye), and where to hire a guide. The guide turns out to be an ex-Army scout, known only as Charlie, and his eyes flickered on their first meeting, from Martin to Raoul and back, and his eyebrow quirked, ever so slightly.

He is the first person they meet who suspects what might lie between them.

When he doesn’t say anything about it, Raoul concludes he must have pinned it to the fact of their being French.

They do not stay long in Chicago, though Raoul sees enough of the city to know that he much prefers Boston (and his heart aches, even now, for Paris). And then it is on to Topeka, Kansas on another train, and this, too, is less enjoyable than the one that brought them to Chicago, though Martin and Raoul make the best of what they can. They lay over a night to recover, and then it is the stagecoach on to Denver, and the stagecoach feels as if it will jar Raoul’s own bones loose from his body, and Martin could content himself collecting those instead of his hunt for dinosaurs. He might almost joke about it, only the constant jarring and dust makes Martin’s cough worse, and he sips whiskey and coughs into a handkerchief, and, after a small nip of laudanum, dozes with his head on Raoul’s shoulder.

It is a relief to say goodbye the stage.

And Denver has pretences of grandeur, but to Raoul’s eyes it borders on rustic. Still, after the stagecoach and the train, it is a relief to be able to stay somewhere, for however short a time.

They check into the first pleasant-looking hotel they lay eyes on, and Raoul and Martin double-up, “for the sake of cutting expense.” For the first two days, they barely leave the room to get a breath of air. And Raoul might almost be concerned about the persistence of Martin’s cough, if Martin did not smile and tell him about being prone to mild bouts of bronchitis. “It’ll ease again in a few days,” and then he is nuzzling back into Raoul’s throat, and all worries are dispelled.

* * *

 

It is late May, and it is Martin’s own suggestion that they ride from Denver instead of taking the stage or train any further. “To get a better sense of the terrain,” he insists, and by now Raoul is so used to his ludicrous ideas that he does not protest, though the others mutter amongst themselves. Raoul is just content to be _going_ , to be _getting somewhere_ at last, and more than a little relieved that Martin is a better colour now than he was after the stage.

So it is agreed. They will ride from Denver north to Cheyenne, where they will re-provision, and then set out again. Martin has no desire to confine himself to any one site of study, and wants to take in at least three or four, or more, if possible. Anywhere that he thinks there could be bones (and he insists he’ll know from studying the landscape, though how he can be so certain Raoul cannot understand) he wants to stop and examine, if only for a day or two. And his adamancy is such that it is pointless arguing with him.

In Denver they acquire a wagon, and two mules which McKey will manage, partially to carry his camera equipment, partially for the packing crates that Martin insists they bring. Each of them gains a mount, and there are two pack horses. Raoul and Martin both set aside their suits and other things (and Raoul buries his first sketchbook of precious drawings of Martin deep in his valise), put them into storage at the bank for their return once summer has passed. Martin already has a working wardrobe, but he advises Raoul on purchasing more practical clothes: cotton shirts and soft neckties and a broad-brimmed hat, and canvas trousers and sturdy boots, and they get good deals on a buckskin jacket each, and heavy overcoats in case of the rain. Raoul writes Philippe to tell him to send any letters to Denver, where they will be held for him until he gets back.

It is Martin’s own insistence that they each write wills, and the suggestion catches Raoul so off-guard that he jumps.

“Not that anything is likely to happen,” Martin assures him, stubbing out his cigar and patting him lightly on the back. “But we will be gone for several months, and one never knows. It is prudent just to be certain, if the worst should come to the worst. Every man should have a will drawn up even in the normal course of affairs.”

So it is with his skin prickling that Raoul seeks out a lawyer, and draws up the necessary document and arrangements. Then he returns to Martin and takes him to bed, and resolves to put the whole thing from his mind.


	3. 3

It is a Thursday when they set out. Not a Monday, which Raoul might half have expected, but a Thursday. And something about it feels like such an odd day for starting something of this magnitude, for the first day of a journey across so many miles into a barren land devoid of other people. It weighs wrong inside of him, an oddly unsettling fact, and he does not know it now, but as long as he lives (which will be a good many years beyond this date) he will never look upon Thursday in the same way again.

Charlie leads the way, and Lake brings up the rear with the packhorses, McKey and his wagon and mules just in front. Taylor and Jackson ride side-by-side and Roberts is sometimes with them and sometimes hangs back with McKey, and these divisions are things which Raoul sees but which do not quite register, not when he can ride alongside Martin. He learned to ride horses in his youth. Philippe practically insisted on it and he did not protest. But the saddle is a sort which is unfamiliar to him, and it takes some getting used to.

Then again, it is a long time since he’s done much in the way of riding at all.

By the end of the first day he has mostly adjusted, but his legs are numb when he slides off and he has to grab the stirrup to balance himself. Then Martin is there, steadying him with a hand on his elbow, and with a quick glance to be sure everyone is occupied, he bows his head, and presses a light kiss to Raoul’s forehead.

Charlie hobbles the horses, and Roberts, his dark skin shining in its glow, gets the fire going. Lake and Jackson brew the coffee and cook the beans, and when they are finished Martin takes a pouch out of his saddlebag, and brews his tea, and they all sit in a circle, the companionship quiet, as soft rustles whisper of wildlife, and somewhere in the distance an owl hoots, the last droplets of vermillion in the sky fading into inky blackness.

Then they roll out their blankets, and drop into sleep. And it is sometime later, much later, when the moon is glowing high in the sky and all around are snores, that Raoul is dozing, his back uncomfortable on the ground, and feels the brush of Martin’s hand against his thigh.

Their lips, when they meet, are soft. And then they are together, beneath the blanket, trousers opened and shirts unbuttoned, and hands slowly, gently, exploring territory already learned.

And Raoul’s whimper, at the moment of release, when he presses up against Martin’s hand, is lost in the soft stirring of the grass.

* * *

 

The days settle into an easy rhythm. Rising shortly after dawn, breakfasting, picking their way over the land until the sun sinks in the sky, dining, sleep. And when the moon is high, Martin comes to Raoul, or Raoul rolls over and goes to him, and it is peaceful, and easy.

Martin begins each morning with a cough, and Raoul reasons that it is because of his tobacco habit, and the cold nights, and Martin smiles and quietly agrees. He is fastidious about keeping his moustache neatly trimmed, and on the third day Raoul shaves, though he has not much to shave, and could easily go a week or more, if he wished. But though there is no one out here to see, no one out here who would care if he let his habits slip, even now he can sometimes hear Philippe’s voice in the back of his mind, murmuring about being neatly presented, and the ingrained habits of a lifetime are difficult to break.

And almost before they know it, though in truth it takes them the best part of five days, they reach Cheyenne. It is a relief to bathe, a relief to lie down in an actual bed and not on the ground, but the biggest relief of all is to have the privacy of a room, if only for a couple of nights.

* * *

 

And then they are off again, into the semi-unknown. And there is something about the way that Martin’s eyes light up at discoloured rocks that makes Raoul’s heart catch, and more than once he has to reach over to grasp the reins of Martin’s horse as he jumps off to make an examination.

He invariably declares them useless, and mounts up to continue on, but even the prospect of maybe finding a bone is enough to lift his mood, and those nights by the fire he rambles on about the bonefields he’s known in Europe, and there is something about the way the fire’s glow lights his face that makes him even more beautiful.

* * *

 

They are two weeks out from Cheyenne (by Raoul’s estimation), almost in the mountains (which according to Charlie are not the Rockies but actually the Bighorns), when Martin sees it. Raoul is musing on how nice the scenery is, when he hears the soft inhalation from beside him, and turns to look just in time to see Martin jump down off his horse and take off running.

Raoul passes his reins over to Lake, jumps off, and follows him, stumbling on loose stone. Up ahead Martin is coughing, stumbling and coughing and then he stops, and sways. Raoul half-trips as he catches up to him, and grasps him by the arm to steady the both of them.

“Do you see it?” and Martin’s voice is rough and low, awe-struck.

But Raoul looks at the cliff face in front of them, and sees only rock. “See what?”

Martin raises his hand, and points. “Right there. Beneath the pink striation band. Over to the right, the patch of roughness.” And there are tears sparkling silver on his cheeks. “It’s a fossil.” And Raoul’s gaze follows the line of his finger, and he distantly sees the way the light catches differently, the faint contrast in colour, and his heart stalls.

Bones. He’s not looking at rocks. He’s looking at _bones_.

A whole _cliff_ full of bones.

How is it possible?

How could it be real?

Surely he must be dreaming, must be still cuddled against Martin beneath the stars. But Martin is looking at him, smiling, the tears trickling down his cheeks even as he trembles and his hand slides into Raoul’s, their fingers twining.

Raoul’s breath hitches.

They’re the bones. They’re the bones. They’re the _dinosaurs_.

So spellbound is he, he does not even notice the others come to join them until he hears Taylor’s murmured, “now the real work begins.” But all he knows is that there is what is left of the dinosaurs, and Martin is brushing his thumb over his knuckles.

* * *

 

It takes hours. Hours of careful seeking, of chiselling and brushing and checking for colour difference, to get the first bones out. But once they are laid on a groundsheet, and Lake is boiling rice to make a protective paste, and McKey is photographing and Raoul sketching while Martin makes notes and stands over his shoulder, murmuring things to add to his drawings, and the others are back working at the cliff-face, Raoul can only marvel at the fragility of the bones. They are so big it is impossible to see how they ever made up a living creature, and so delicate that one of them broke in the extraction and the pained noise that Martin made cut Raoul right to the quick.

But they lived. They lived, they breathed, they walked this land. They died here and were buried in the rock for their bones to be found all these thousands of years later. He brushes his fingers lightly over one bone, and shudders to think that it was once covered in skin, it was part of a creature made up of flesh and blood.

How did God create something like this?

And all of his theories, all of his conclusions and answers, fall away. How could these bones have been planted? How could something that must have been so huge, so majestic, have drowned in a flood? How could it have been real, but it was real, it was, and here is the evidence of it, beneath his fingertips, and he turns and his eyes meet Martin’s, and it does not matter that the others are here, it does not matter that McKey is taking his pictures, not when Martin’s arms come around him, and draw him close, and he leans into him, leans into this man who has brought such wonder into his life, who is himself the greatest wonder of all, and murmurs, softly, “I love you.”

Martin inhales sharply, pulls back to look at him, and there are fresh tears shining in his eyes as his lips twist and Raoul almost regrets his words until he feels fingertips, gently pushing back a strand of hair, and Martin smiles. “I love you too.”

* * *

 

And it is as if he is dreaming. As if the moment he traced his fingers over that cold ancient bone that the world slipped and re-aligned, and it does not matter how the bones got there, does not matter whether they were planted by a trickster god or lived and died upon this land or were all destroyed in some huge nightmare tragedy. All that matters is that they are here, now, and Martin’s face lights up each time they ease a new one from the rock, and Raoul is helpless to do anything but gape anew at each one even as he sketches it, sketches Martin leaning over it, sketches Martin by the fire, sketches the others too, by the cliffs and the bones, but mostly Martin.

And the days blur into weeks, blur into months of seeking out new cliffs, new bones, of unearthing and sketching and Martin getting that fevered look in his eye over something exciting (the giddy way he danced when they found a partial skeleton, singing “it’s an Allosaurus it’s an Allosaurus it’s an ALLOSAURUS” and grabbed Raoul and spun him around and kissed both his cheeks, or how he stood, still and hushed after taking several measurements of a length of jawbone and murmured, “I think it’s a Brontosaurus”) and covering in protective rice paste and packing away in crates to move on again. There are more bones than they can possibly bring with them, and Martin lovingly chooses the best specimens, and secrets the others away in what he determines are safe places, making careful notes. And the blue sky of day and the stars of night are the only ceiling he needs, the bones the only answers, and with Martin pressed close to him beneath the blankets, murmuring to him Latin names of long-dead creatures between soft declarations of love, there is nothing more that he could ever want.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some historical notes - the Allosaurus was discovered in Colorado in 1877. Brontosaurus was discovered in 1879 (the same year this fic is set) but for the purposes of this fic I decided to fudge that date the way Michael Crichton does in his delightful novel Dragon Teeth (which was no small part of the inspiration for this fic) so that Martin would have heard of it. I'm not sure if putting a rice paste over the bones was an actual protective thing that actual palaeontologists did in the late-19th century, but it sounds plausible and the idea for that also came from Dragon Teeth.


	4. 4

But all such dreams must end, and when they wake to find the first frost crisply silver on the grass, they know it is time to turn back. Back for Denver. Back to the east, and reality.

Back to France.

The realisation comes to him along the Bighorn river. They will return to Denver, and then to Chicago. And Martin will probably want to stay there, to study the bones. But he, Raoul, will have to return to France. Philippe will be expecting him back, is probably already making the arrangements.  And tears spring to his eyes because it’s so unfair, it’s so wrong. Yes, he was reluctant to come to America in the first place. Heaven knows crossing the ocean was the last thing he wanted when he could have already been in the Navy but now—

Now he sees the error of his ways. If he had not come he would never have met Martin, would never have known any of those. Would never have been loved like this or get to love like this and now that he has it he wants to cling to it, to hold onto it forever and never let it go. How could he ever want to let this go?

He will have to write Philippe. Have to tell him that he has decided to stay, at least for another summer. To travel. To see the vast cattle herds that Roberts regales them with stories of by the campfire, the millions and millions of cattle as far as the eye can see. To visit the smoky towns and the silver mines and the poky little saloons that Jackson has seen. And the gambling halls! The bordellos! Philippe loves gambling halls and bordellos. Visiting those is something he would support, for the sake of experience, for the sake of having fun.

He could not tell him that he wants to stay so he can love Martin with all of his heart. So he can spend nights pressed close to him and kissing him and whispering in his ear. So he can sketch him in every light of day, in every month of every season of the year. He could never tell Philippe any of that because Philippe would never understand, could never even begin to grasp the way that Martin makes him feel complete. He never knew there was something missing from his life, never knew he was living as only half a man until his lips met Martin’s. But he was. And now he is whole. And to have to give that up— the possibility of—of not getting to hold him and keep him forever—

He cannot bear to think of it.

* * *

 

The journey is slow out of necessity, for the sake of the bones. But without the excitement to keep him going, to distract him, Raoul can no longer be blind to how pale Martin is beneath his tan, can no longer be deaf to his coughing in the night, to the rattling of his breath in his throat. And his skin burns with fever when they are pressed close, sweat beading on his forehead.

And Raoul knows, deep down he knows, that it is so much more, so much worse, than occasional bouts of bronchitis.

Martin is only growing more ill. And they are still so very far away from Cheyenne, and the bottles of laudanum are running low though they still have some whiskey. And Martin shivers against him in the night, head resting on his chest, and his breathing is so rough that Raoul cannot sleep for listening to it, for fear that it might grow shallow and stop, so he stares up at the clouds half-covering the stars, and thinks of dinosaurs. Thinks of how, surely, God must have created them, have set them down, for they could not have sprung from the land fully formed. And if God created them, and then destroyed them, then are they living on in an afterlife of their own? Is there an afterlife for all of God’s creatures who have breathed and had beating hearts that failed? A paradise of their own? And Martin coughs in his sleep, and even in the darkness Raoul can see the flecks of blood darkening his lips, and it seems so important to know, to know what happened to all these ancient creatures, as if knowing will provide answers, will solve it all, and Martin coughs again, and Raoul dabs the blood away and kisses his curls and holds him tighter, as tight as he dare.

* * *

 

It is pneumonia, in the end. Pneumonia that steals the breath from Martin’s lungs. And the first sign of it is when he whimpers one day, when they are back where they found the first bones on the outskirts of the mountains, and Raoul looks to him just in time to see him slide off his horse, and crumple into the dirt.

The fear that seizes his heart almost takes his own breath away.

And then he is down beside Martin, is turning him over, and easing an arm under him to raise him, is wiping the blood from his mouth and pressing the flask of water that Roberts hands him to his lips, trickling a little inside. And Martin coughs, and gags, his eyes fluttering open, unfocused, as Raoul rolls him onto his side and he heaves up the beans they had for breakfast, and he’s too weak, too ill, to do anything except lie there, wracked by shivers.

They feed him more water, and a little whiskey, enough that he whispers that they should push on. They help him onto his horse, and Raoul climbs up behind him, wraps an arm around his waist and takes the reins. And Martin’s head is heavy on his shoulder, his forehead burning up against his neck, and it’s all Raoul can do not to look down at the blood still staining the corner of his mouth.

They ride until sunset, and Charlie finds a place to camp by the river. They lay Martin out his blanket, and he’s already delirious, mumbling in Latin and giggling, and when Raoul kneels down beside him to dab the sweat from his brow, he raises himself up on one elbow, and presses his hand to Raoul’s cheek, and whispers, his eyes shining with fever, “you’re beautiful,” and he half-smiles, a faint version of the smile that Raoul has seen so many times now, that still makes his breath catch and he tries to raise himself higher, to get closer, but he’s too weak and he sinks down, and pulls Raoul with him, and presses his lips to his cheek. “I love…you,” he breathes, “you…beautiful boy. I love you.” Then his eyes flutter shut again, and his grip sags and Raoul lays his head on his chest, and lets his tears trickle as they will.

* * *

 

He lingers for three days. Three days in which Raoul refuses to leave his side, in which the others stop suggesting that take a break for even five minutes. And Raoul cradles him, and rocks him, and kisses him and doesn’t care that the others can see, and whispers to him how much he loves him, and tries to answer his questions about dinosaurs as best as he can even though all his answers are made up off the top of his head because what does he know about dinosaurs only what Martin has taught him? And Martin whimpers, and whispers, and coughs, and gags on his own blood, and can’t keep anything down, not even water, his skin burning up, paper thin, his lips cracked.

The last of the laudanum puts him into a drugged sleep, and Raoul sketches him, puts in each line with infinite care, tries to capture the way his curls stick to his forehead with sweat because he has to do him justice now, he has to, he owes him that much. And then he wakes again, and seeks out Raoul’s fingers to brush them with his own, and his voice is painfully cracked as he whispers, “…best summer…my life…”

Raoul fights back the tears that spring to his eyes as he takes him in his arms again, because he will not let him see him cry dammit, he will not, not now, but his efforts fail and a tear trickles, and Martin’s fingertips are light against his cheek, brushing it away.

It is a starry night, a few hours later, chilly with frost. Raoul’s overcoat is draped over his shoulders, Martin’s laid over him like a blanket, and the others are all sitting away, giving them space, when Martin gazes up at him, eyes oddly clear, and so blue, bluer than he has ever seen them.

His voice is faint, and Raoul has to lean closer to hear him, as he murmurs, “you’ll get…bones back?”

Raoul nods, and kisses his forehead, and raises his hand to his lips to kiss those precious knuckles, voice thick with unshed tears. “Of course I will. And you will too.” _You have to, you have to._

A faint huff of air, as if Martin might laugh, and then he gasps, eyes wide with sudden pain and terror, his hand flopping towards his chest, and he gasps again as his eyes soften, flicker over Raoul’s face before rolling to the stars, and Raoul barely has time to kiss his knuckles one more time before he takes one last faint gasp, and sighs in a low whine.

His head sags limp against Raoul’s neck.

And Raoul knows. He knows even as he presses his fingers to the thin wrist, knows even as his heart pounds _no no no_ and he pulls back the overcoat to search his throat for the pulse he cannot find, knows even as he shakes him, as he whispers his name and pleads with him and looks down into those blank staring eyes, those parted lips tinged blue, so still now, knows that he’s gone.

His throat burns, and distantly he hears someone scream but it can’t be from him it can’t be from him he’s never screamed in his life and _why won’t Martin just blink?_

* * *

 

The dinosaurs must have lived independently of any God. It is all he can think, the thought oddly disconnected, as dawn breaks on the first morning of a world without Martin. And he looks at him, at the frost crisp and shining on his hair, and sketches in the curls as he has done so many times, the angle of his nose, the closed eyes and their lashes that are just slightly too long, the lines around his mouth that spoke of pain and dreams, the moustache that he trimmed for him last night, when he was still warm, after he stopped breathing. And he cannot feel anything, as he sketches those hands, those beautiful, talented, remarkable hands, with their long pale fingers, folded now over his chest, cannot feel anything, only gaping, hollow numbness.

If the dinosaurs did not live, if the God he grew up with might have planted those bones to give Martin something to cling to, then how could He steal him away on a frosty night beneath a sky of stars, surrounded by packing crates filled with the pieces of his dreams? It doesn’t make sense, any of it. It is the most unnatural, most wrong, most terrible thing he’s ever heard.

If God made the dinosaurs, how could He take them away?

If God planted the bones, how could He take Martin away after finding them?

If God made Martin, _why_ would He take him away?


	5. 5

Raoul clips a lock of Martin’s hair, and slips it into one of his full sketchbooks. And they bury him there, on a knoll by the bank of the Powder River. The ground has been softened by rain, and while Raoul sketches the land, marks in the river and the cliffs in the distance where they found the first bones, heart and mind too full to think, too full to even draw a proper breath, Charlie and the others dig, with the shovels they brought, and the picks. They dig a hole so deep that Lake, the tallest of them all, can stand upright in it, and only the top of his head is visible.

And Raoul kisses Martin’s forehead one last time, and his closed eyelids, and his cold lips, and his hands. And his heart tightens to think that it is not consecrated ground, that Martin’s grave is not where anyone else can pray for him, and he goes to his saddlebags, and finds the small bottle of holy water that his sisters insisted he bring with him, and dipping his finger into it he makes the sign of the cross on Martin’s forehead, and his lips, and opens the top buttons of his shirt, so he can make it too on his chest, over his heart. And then he pours the remainder of the bottle into the open grave, and hopes that God will take it as enough of an offering to carry his soul to peace.

In the cold of the night, in the hollowness of Martin dead in his arms, he had resolved to never think on God again, but now, the sun at its highest point, the ripples of the river shining golden, he reaches a truce in his internal war, just in case.

He will not have his crisis ruin Martin’s chance of an afterlife.

Then they wrap him in his blankets, and with the ropes they had for lowering bones down from the cliffs, they lower him into the grave. Raoul takes a fistful of the soft clay and sprinkles it over him, and takes a second fistful to keep forever, and there are no words he can speak, no words he can even begin to imagine that might do Martin justice, and Roberts whispers a prayer, and Taylor breathes something in Latin, and Jackson grasps Raoul’s hand, for the briefest of moments, and murmurs the Salve Regina as he takes a shovel, and scrapes the first of the clay back into the hole.

The colour drains from the world and Raoul sways on unsteady legs, every fibre of his body suddenly too weak, too heavy, and the last thing he sees is the dry white grass rushing up to meet him.

* * *

 

He wakes to voices, to the heat of a fire on his face, to water cold on his lips, and his eyes flicker open, and for one wonderful, glorious heartbeat he thinks it might be Martin, smoothing back his hair, but it is Jackson, and the pain that lances through his chest carries him back to sleep.

* * *

 

“…suspect…his heart. Pneumonia…different progression…his illness…”

“…you mean…illness?”

“…consumptive…early stages, but…”

“And…about Raoul?”

“Exhaustion…needs…couple days…”

“…move soon…taste the snow…breeze…”

* * *

 

When Raoul comes back to himself, it is the grey light of dawn. Jackson nods at him, and makes him drink a thin broth, and he dozes again for a little while until the sun is high, but he is so hollow inside, so empty, he cannot bring himself to move.

There is one irrevocable, impossible fact. And it is that Martin is dead. And if Raoul ever moves again, it will be too soon.

* * *

 

They travel on, leave the river bank and the knoll that cradles all that remains of Martin, and they tie his horse to the back of McKey’s wagon, loaded down with the packing crates of dinosaurs. Raoul rides alone, and cannot speak a word, and he knows the others are watching him, but he hasn’t the energy to care.

And finally, slowly, they arrive back in Cheyenne. They sell the horses, and the wagon, and arrange passage on a stagecoach back to Denver. Charlie goes his own separate way, and squeezes Raoul’s hand in farewell, and they arrange for the bones to travel direct to Chicago (with copies of Raoul’s sketches and notes, that Martin had insisted he make each night by the fire), to an acquaintance of Martin’s whom he’d told Taylor would take care of them, if something should happen. And when they reach in Denver, Taylor presses a letter into Raoul’s hand.

“He told me to give you this,” and his eyes are gentle, “a few nights before. Just in case.”

But he does not open the letter, cannot bring himself to though his name is there, on the front in Martin’s curling script, and he takes it out to look at, in his long nights in Denver, just to trace where Martin’s own fingertips once touched.

There are letters waiting for him from Philippe, several of them, and he does not open them either, only sets them aside. The day he goes to the bank to collect the things he stored there, all those months ago, he takes Martin’s things home with him too.

His own clothes no longer fit. He has grown too broad for them, his arms too muscled from work. And when he goes out to buy new clothes, he goes, too, to the law offices where he and Martin deposited their wills.

His own he takes back to his hotel and burns.

Martin’s he leaves carefully folded, on top of the pile of letters that were waiting for him, too. There is so much, too much, more than he can bring himself to look at.

It is McKey, in the end, who helps him to arrange the things that need arranging, to sort through the letters and papers. McKey who writes to Martin’s aunt in Breton to tell her the news, and sends her the things designated to go to her. McKey who shuffles Raoul from Denver to Chicago and back, finally, to Boston, where it all started. McKey who organises the letters to be sent back to their senders, with brief condolence notes. McKey who opens the will, that names Raoul executor, and sees to it that it is fulfilled.

McKey, who sits down with Raoul and pours him whiskey and glares at him until he writes Philippe with the promise that he will be home by Christmas.

And it is McKey, that same night, deeper into the bottle of whiskey, McKey who has become simply John, who hands him Martin’s letter, and tells him, in a low voice, that if he does not open it now, then he might never be able to bring himself to.

Raoul draws in a ragged breath, as numb as he’s been since the night all those weeks ago when Martin took his last gasp staring up at the stars, and opens the letter.

And that night, reading the sweet words of love, of thanks, the soft acknowledgement that, “I know you were sceptical about this whole endeavour, and I am endlessly happy, every day, to think that you chose to come out here with me even if you didn’t believe at first. You’ve made a first-rate bone hunter, my love”, and the lines, half-smudged, “I’ve suspected for some time that there is something worse wrong with me than mere bronchitis, but I have been afraid of finding out, and I hope, for your sake, that I am wrong,” and, simply, “I know that if you are reading this then it must have come to pass, and I hope my death was not too protracted, but mostly, Raoul, I hope my suffering was not such to cause you undue pain,” and it is that night, reading those words that Martin set down and hoped he would never have to read, that Raoul, finally, gives himself over to the tears that have lived within him for so long now, and begged to be released.

And as McKey’s hands gently lower Raoul’s head to his shoulder, Raoul sees again as if anew, the glow of golden firelight upon a pale face, tears shining in a pair of sky-blue eyes, and feels the soft press of uncertain lips against his, and the dampness of tears upon a cheek, but they can only be his tears now, and never anyone else’s.


	6. 6

He returns to France, returns to France on a ship so similar to the one that he left her on that he cannot bring himself to leave his cabin except to eat, as if he might bump into an apparition of Martin. He returns to France with sketchbooks full of dinosaur bones, full of the most beautiful man he has never met, with photographs from McKey (of bones, of cliffs, several of he and Martin, and the most special one of all, of he and Martin embracing the evening they declared their love for each other, that first evening of discovery) and an address in case he ever wants copies of them. He returns to France with a lock of hair, a fistful of Wyoming clay secure in a little jar, a collection of brushes and chisels and small hammers that were held by hands buried now along the Powder River, and with a creased letter that he keeps inside his breast pocket though he has learned it off by heart, and sometimes when he closes his eyes he can hear the words as if they are being murmured in his ear by a sweetly lilting voice.

He returns to France with all that he left with, and with so very much more. And late one night, in a buckskin jacket and heavy overcoat and a broad-brimmed hat stained with dust, he stands at the railing along the deck, and looks out over the darkness of the ocean at night, up at the stars twinkling in the heavens, and smokes cigars and inhales the salt of the sea air, and the only chill he feels is the one in his chest, that has locked away any words he might ever speak of what he saw, what he did, and who he loved.

As the pain kicks inside of him, it is all he can do just to breathe.

* * *

 

It is three days before Christmas when he disembarks at the harbour from which he left all those months ago. And it is like some strange mockery of his leave taking, the way his sisters throw their arms around him and exclaim at how much he’s grown, how broad he’s become, and Philippe hugs him and whispers in his ear, “you’ll have to tell me all about it.” It is all he can do to smile thinly, and nod, and plead exhaustion.

They travel back to Paris, and he sleeps most of the way. And when, at last, he lies down in his own bed, freshly made with clean linens, it is as if the last year might never have happened at all, as if the most magical summer of his life were merely a dream.

It is late that night, and the house is asleep, when he takes a candle and pries up the false bottom of his wardrobe to stow his treasures away. The small bag of clay. The lock of hair in a locket now. The photographs. The sketchbooks. The letter. He tucks them all away safe, with his battered cotton shirt, and his canvas trousers, and their small bloodstains that came from Martin’s lips. He hides everything in the one place where no one will ever find them except him.

Then he walks out on his balcony and looks over the garden where he played as a child, carpeted with snow now, and wrapped in his overcoat over his dressing gown, he bows his head and gives himself over to tears.

* * *

 

In the early days of the new year, he slips away from the family, just for a few hours. Wandering the streets of Paris was always a comfort to him, but his feet carry him now to the Galleries of Comparative Anatomy. Martin spoke of it, once, late one night as they lay together beneath the stars, of a pilgrimage that he made there when he was little more than a boy. And with the cold deep in his bones, with his skin chilled with the drifting snow outside, his hands buried deep in his pockets, Raoul looks up at the skeletons, and all he can think is, _this is what it was for, this is what we were trying to do,_ and as the tears trickle down his cheeks he closes his eyes, and swallows, and for one moment seems to feel a hand squeezing his arm.

The moment shatters, and with tired eyes he looks at the skeletons again, but where once there would have been awe, surprise, wonder, at the dinosaurs, now there is only hollowness, and a craving, deep in his heart, for there to have been more.

* * *

 

If they knew what had happened out there, if he were ever able to speak of it, they might write songs about him. Songs about a boy who went across the ocean to a strange land, who learned of love and became a man. Who unearthed the bones of ancient creatures that died thousands of years ago. Who rode for hundreds of miles alongside the most beautiful man in the world, and buried him beside a winding river. Who learned of dreams, and stars, and rocks, and bones, and whispered words in the darkness, and soft breaths and blood on lips and the throbbing pulse of a heartbeat beneath his fingertips, and vermillion brushed across the sky fading into dusk. Who lost his religion, but who gained so much more.

If they knew, if they could understand, they would write epics of poetry for him.

But every moment is held safe within him, and if he breathes a single one of them, they will drift away in the air. They are fragile, pure things, and they are his.

Forever his.

* * *

 

He joins the Navy, as he is supposed to. Picks up where he left off a year ago and becomes an officer. And whenever someone asks him about his American travels, he smiles fake smiles that he cannot feel in any part of his heart, and nods, and murmurs that it was an excellent experience.

It is all he can do just to breathe, all he can do to keep the earth from slipping beneath his feet and maintain a steady footing, even on land, but he carries on, and does as he is supposed to.

* * *

 

It is the spring of 1881, and he is twenty and feels every bit of it, and worries that after the better part of two years he might forget the precise shade of sky-blue that made his heart stutter. 1881, and it is two years since he tasted wine and cigars and a faint hint of iron for the first time off the mouth of another.

1881, and he is on leave from the Navy.

Philippe worries that he has become distant, that he has lost himself somehow since going to sea, but Philippe does not realise that he lost himself long before that. The craving that lingered in his heart that cold January when he wandered to the Galleries has flared into longing, into desperation, into a burning need to cross the Atlantic and travel by stage and train to Cheyenne, and from there on horseback into the wilderness, and seek out cliffs filled with dinosaur bones. It fills his waking thoughts, consumes his dreams. To go back. To see it all. To breathe in the world he left behind, the place where now, he knows, is the only one he could ever belong.

But Philippe worries about him. And Philippe insists he go to the opera, and perhaps take a chorus girl as a lover.

He goes to the opera, and his eyes find ocean blue, and curling blonde hair that he has not seen in eight years since he was a boy in Perros-Guirec. Christine Daaé smiles at him, faint recognition in eyes that speak of grief, of pain, of inner secrets and a different world.

A wedding ring shines golden on her finger, and she has recently become the lead soprano.

She is not the Christine Daaé that he knew once upon a time, but he is not the Raoul, Vicomte De Chagny (title sitting more uncomfortable than ever) that she knew once either. And perhaps that makes them even.

They go to lunch, and speak vaguely of the things that have happened to them in the years since they played together by the sea, and agree to correspond. But anything that they could have been was lost to them long ago, and this is their new reality.

The next day Raoul resigns his commission, to the shock of his family and acquaintances. And he takes out the photograph that McKey gave him, of he and Martin, standing before a cliff filled with bones, their fingers just brushing, and Martin smiling, and looking so alive, even in a photo.

Then he goes to a biology Professor he has read of, a man widely held by society to be eccentric because he has made a study of ancient creatures long dead, and declares his intention to learn all that he can.

_Teach me about dinosaurs. Teach me about bones. Teach me about how they came to be. Teach me about why they were lost._

The words circle in his head, as if they are a sacred prayer.

But what he says is, “I was a good friend of Martin Cuvier, and I was with him when he went to America.” He produces his sketchbooks, the drawings of bones, the notes added in Martin’s hand. And the Professor meets his eye, and nods.

* * *

 

Philippe stares aghast when he hears the news, and whispers that perhaps he made a terrible error in judgement in sending him to America. But Raoul looks him square in the eye and tells him that he will study these things if he wishes, and he could not give a damn that there is almost a year left until he comes into his majority.

His acquaintances declare that America was the ruination of him.

His sisters pat his hand and ask him if he feels quite well, and is he not making this decision in haste?

Christine Daaé squeezes his hand, and smiles at him, and says, “You really ought to meet my husband. He’s told me about the bonefields he saw on his travels.”

* * *

 

He goes to visit a widowed woman in Breton, whom he should have written to one upon a time, but he could not bring himself to think about and let McKey do it instead. A widowed woman who is an aunt though she is not much older than Philippe, and who has dark hair tinged grey, pinned neatly back, and a certain slant to her mouth. He shows her some of his sketches, and gives her one to keep, and when he says that he studies dinosaurs, she squeezes his hand with tears in her eyes (sky-blue, the same sky-blue he’s longed to see every hour of every day) and whispers, “I suspect my nephew was very fond of you.”

* * *

 

It is five years since he first sailed from France to America. Five years since he met Martin on the ship to Boston. And there is a locket hanging around his throat with a lock of dark hair inside, and a small bag in his pocket with a fist of Wyoming clay, and in his luggage is a box of carefully tended brushes, chisels, and small hammers, and a whole collection of sketchpads, empty and filled, and several precious photographs.

And a letter, sealed and safe inside an envelope, though its words are forever etched into his heart.

He stands at the railing of a new ship, and looks out across the vast Atlantic, and for the first time since he left the Powder River, he is able to breathe.


End file.
